


Who are you, who is she, what's going on and can I go back to jail now?

by GraceEliz



Series: Avengers, Bats, Birds [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Bruce Wayne Has Issues, Bruce was a troublesome teenager, Fast Cars, Gen, MCU/DCU crossover, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Young Bruce Wayne, and he needs a hug, t for some swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-01-11 21:25:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18432401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceEliz/pseuds/GraceEliz
Summary: When a stray spell from some scouse magic students turns Bruce into an almost 18 year old, the Bats are left befuddled by his attitude. This is not their Bruce, but he seems kinda cool (or so Jason says)





	1. In which Bruce is de-aged, and Jason is Done ™

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Teenage Father](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17998766) by [Gemini_00](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemini_00/pseuds/Gemini_00). 



> Have a plot bunny.  
> Work title from Ant-Man, because this is a crossover and nothing belongs to me except the writing anyway.

As a note, I looked up Wayne Manor floor plan for a better idea of the house and discovered that one of the sites in filming is Mentmore Towers, England. Look it up,it’s gorgeous. I wonder if it’s open to the public….? (wrote a lot of this in the A&E. Not the best for cohesive writing so bear with, hospitals are very odd places. Gramps hates ‘em) 

 

Jason knows full well that Batman has to be unkillable, and that despite his hatred of magic he never backs down from it. Tonight, a group of young sorcerers with rough British accents (so says Alfred, who claims they come from Liverpool, but that means nothing to Jason because he’s only been to London and Oxford) have been causing absolute mayhem in Lower Gotham, casting mostly aesthetic spells on buildings. They distracted the cops by throwing small birds towards them and got into a liqueur store, which went as well as can be expected. There are now six absolutely coathangered (damn Alfred’s Britishisms) teenagers stumbling drunkenly around Gotham casting increasingly dangerous and harmful spells. They’ve filtered down towards the docks, maybe hoping for an empty warehouse to do whatever complex spell will get them home. Jason doesn’t particularly care, he just wants them out of this city. The Bats on duty – himself, Black Bat, Batman and Spoiler – trail silently above the young hooligans, blending into the shadows far more effectively than the drunken attempt at an invisibility spell the one with the red hair made. Finally they break into an old fish warehouse, which still stinks in hot weather, and collapse into the middle. Batman growls that he’s going in first, to wait for the signal. Nobody argues.

The _thud _of Batman’s boots is the only warning the drunk students (Steph observed earlier on that _they must be students because just look at ‘em, B, idiots _) get before Gotham’s oldest and arguably scariest vigilante looms over them. Their screams of alarm are overridden by Batman’s growl. “Disarm yourselves and come into custody, or get out of this city,” he rumbles, “I don’t care how drunk you are. Get out or hand yourselves in.” Jason considers that to be a generous offer by Bat standards. The one in the yellow jumpsuit, a girl somewhere between 17 and 22, sneers haughtily. Her hand goes to her wand in her hair, but a batarang smacks her wrist. She leaps into the air and Jason smirks over at Black Bat. He’s still a crack shot, bullets or batarang. They all look stunned, but fury is quickly spreading itself over the girl’s face. “You dare to arrest _me _? You insolent-“ her rant is checked by Black Bat dropping on top of her. Jason is in total agreement: these guys are not allowed to insult B like that. Spoiler swears but leaps into the fray. Jason rolls his eyes and leaps to a different beam for a better sniper angle. That’s his job these days and he can’t say he regrets having pulled out of the full vigilante life, but incidents like this bring back all the thrills – both anxiety and euphoria.______

______There’s a clatter and a scream, and Black Bat yanks Spoiler up into the rafters just in time to avoid a sickly pink glow that fills the air where they were stood. When it fades, the sorcerers are gone (that’s what the loud noise was, then, thinks Jason) and the Bat is limp on the floor. Jason’s breath catches in his throat and he hurls himself to the ground. Black Bat and Spoiler beat him by seconds and Cass – because they’re Cass, Steph and Jason now and that’s their _Dad _lying on the floor – is nudging him and whisper-shouting for him to wake up. Jason is focussed on checking the floor for wands or other scraps of evidence. Steph is calling for the Batmobile. Jason senses something is wrong just as Cass shrieks to move. He dives for the edge of the room just as light and cracking noise explodes behind him, sending him sprawling. He lies for a minute as the light fades and the noises cut off as suddenly as they started, and waits for Cass to give the all clear. Everyone obeys her command when the Bat is down, because she is the best at bodies.___ _ _ _ _ _

________“All clear,” she murmers through the comms. Jason tentatively sits up into a crouch – and very nearly falls over again. Where Batman should be is a dark haired pale teenage, tall and slender. Built more like Dick than the Bruce they know. Steph, across the hall, stumbles her landing from the crossbeam. Cass is still, and Jason looks at her. He has no idea what to do. The boy – Bruce, _God, Bruce, _stirs slightly. The tension in Cass’ shoulders is the only warning he gets before Bruce startles upright, gasping. He stares madly around the warehouse, until he fixes his eyes on Steph. Jason tenses up at the bewildered frown that creases Bruce’s brows, and in the tense pause builds a tension that feels like being in a bubble about to pop, or in a soufflé about to collapse. Jay takes a tentative half-step forward. “Bruce? Bruce, are you-“___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Who the f**k are you and _where the hell am I _?” he snarls. Jason gulps. What’s the procedure here? Ask who they are, that’s a good place to start. Steph beats him to it, asking, “Bruce. Do you know who we are?” She’s gentle, nonthreatening, just as they were all trained to be. The distrust on Bruce’s face and the anxiety in his shoulders break something in Jason’s chest in that little area that only Bruce can hurt, that only hurts when he does. Jay takes a deep breath, “Look, Bruce, we ain’t gonna hurt ya. We just have to ask a few questions, right?” Bruce keeps eyeing them all warily, but doesn’t leap to his feet in defense, so there’s that at least. Yeah, Jason can work with this. “I’m Red Hood, and these two are Spoiler-“ Steph waves – “and Black Bat. She doesn’t say much but she’ll know what you’re about to do before you do, so don’t try to leg it.” Jason carefully watches Bruce’s face, trying to see through the mask Bruce wears. It’s mostly as he expected, not quite as strong as grown-up-Bruce, but better than most of the petty criminals they take down on a regular basis. At the minute he can see the stress, confusion, fear, and distrust caused by the situation. He sighs, “You have no idea who we are, do you? Okay. Right. Um.” What the hell do they do?___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Batman! Hood! Coming in!” rings Dick’s voice from somewhere outside. On the “in” he bounds through the warehouse door, staggering slightly when he sees the teenager sat in the ruins of the Batsuit. Jason sighed. Here we go, then, he braced himself for Dick’s _oh my god B look at how smol you are _outburst of glee. It didn’t come. Bruce was on his feet now, and Jason needed to find out how he’d missed the movement, arms raised in a basic defensive stance that was among the first training a Robin received. His lip curled up, “Who the hell are you?” Dick froze. “He doesn’t know us, Nightwing,” called Steph from where she was viewing procedures from the beam above Bruce’s head. Bruce didn’t move at her voice. “He’s been magicked,” Dick sighed. Cass nodded. Jason looked at Bruce again, saw the fear that had sparked up. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before he sighed. Dick looked startled by how much lighter this Bruce’s voice was from grown-up-Bruce’s when he announced, “My name, as you appear to know, is Bruce Wayne. I would appreciate it if you take me back to Wayne Manor, if you can. My butler is probably getting concerned.” Jason sees he isn’t the only one surprised by the politeness, more Brucie than Bruce, a far cry from the snarls of earlier. He rolls his eyes, “Look, if it helps, my last memory of any possible significance to Gotham as a whole is spending the night in a cell in Metropolis with Lex and Tony. Katia came to pick us up and we came home on the train. We were photographed very early yesterday morning in Pablo’s, which is the old fire station two blocks up from Park Row. The three of us are obviously hungover and Lex has a black eye, Tony a split lip and I should have my left eye swollen shut and a marked limp, which I don’t.”___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Bruce is not an idiot. Dick doesn’t appear to have anything to say in response to that. Jason sighs again. He’s done a lot of that recently. “Listen,” he says to Bruce, “You, Tony Stark and Lex Luthor don’t hang around much these days. Don’t ask why, I don’t know. I don’t know what particular incident that was, so it’d be best if you tell us your exact age.” Bruce narrows his eyes in calculation. They all wait, even those on the comms who’ve been listening silently (and how inconvenient that Alfred is in Spain this weekend, not due back for another two days), with bated breath. “My eighteenth is in a week, the 19th of April. It’s the twelfth.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Something in the air deflates, and something else tightens. Bruce senses it. “Get me home, and you can have any answer I can give you.” The Bats look to each other, then Cass nods. Dick takes a breath, “Come with us, then. You can go in the Batmobile, and Black Bat can go with you. That okay?” Bruce eyes up Cass, but nods. Jason claps his hands together. Nobody jumps. “Let’s move, people.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	2. In which Bruce is cleverer than expected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is taken back to the cave. That's good, he supposes. Too bad he hates caves and bats, huh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still trying to decide where to fit this into the series exactly. Probably where CA:TFA would be. Thanks for the support.

Once Bruce is in the car, which is more like a tank, he allows himself to properly think. He should be in the Manor, in his own bed, with Tony and Lex sprawled with him. His eye should be swollen, legs bruised, and the stitches he should have in his chest from Guatemala are gone. That worries him the most, because despite only six people knowing about Guatemala (the three of them, Alfred, Jarvis and Ana) it isn’t exactly something he can forget happening despite not having an exactly stellar recollection of how they ended up there. Time seems to have passed and these people who appear to be older than him know who he is and know him well, since they call him Bruce not Brucie, so some form of age reversal spell? Perhaps not. Time travel isn’t impossible, probably, so maybe young-him and older-him have switched places. That seems to be impossible, but his brothers are both geniuses and he just woke up in the apparently now disused fish warehouse surrounded by bat-themed vigilantes. Bruce scowls. Bats are terrible creatures, who’ve haunted his nightmares ever since he can remember. God, he hopes Alfred is around when they reach the Manor.

The girl in the car, Black Bat, is dressed entirely in black, except her yellow belt and the bat on her chest. She’s obviously a fighter, as they all are, with a specialty in body language. Hence, a mixed team of vigilantes who work together to protect the innocents of this city. The way they stumble so much around him implies a knowledge that he can’t remember, a life his own but not yet. He saw the bat on the ruins of the kevlar suit he awoke in – and thank god he was in the ratty black shirt and jeans he last remembers wearing when he awoke – as well as its size. Add to that the delay in establishing a single leader, the way Night wing staggered, Spoilers tension, Hood’s exasperated concern, and Bruce concludes that _he _is a vigilante too. Probably one of the first, judging by the sheer level of awkward surrounding the whole fiasco. This Bat beside him is silent, which is good. His head is throbbing like mad trying to follow so many different lines of thought. He wishes he had a knife to force them to silence. Somehow, Bruce doubts he can get one off a Bat. Looking up and squinting into the darkness, he realises that this is a back lane leading to the Manor. Why come this way? Bruce has walked all the pathways within ten miles of home, some even further, and is certain that the only place this road goes is the old barn and the cave. The car – what sort of a name is Batmobile anyway? Hopefully one of the others named it as a child, and not him – lurches sideways, towards the cave. Heaving a sigh, Bruce reflects that he should have known. Bats live in caves.__

__He hates caves._ _

__What follows after this realisation is a tense two minutes in which Bruce chants “Bats are friends, bats can’t hurt me,” to himself under his breath in an attempt to stave off what he knows will be a panic attack of the frozen _oh god oh god ohgodohgodohgod _type, which he isn’t actually 100% sure is actually a panic attack, since he hadn’t asked and it isn’t that vital really is it because when he takes his antidepressants the anxiety eases off to a really quite manageable level but magic was involved so does that mean the pill he took 12 hours ago when he stumbled to the toilet in the middle of the night doesn’t count and isn’t that weird for him it should be sometime early afternoon and it’s pitch black and _oh so that’s the cave- _______

______Black Bat nudges him. “Out. Med bay, then explain,” she orders and it’s enough to break the spiral Bruce was falling into. The door opens and he pours out of it onto his knees, digging his nails into the floor as anchors. The still stone helps him to focus on the now, and after a few long moments Bruce looks up. Nightwing stands in front of him pensively chewing his lip. He offers a hand to Bruce, “The med bay is there, see? We have a few types of anxiety pills, which you look like you could use. You are so not traught.” Nightwing grins at the horror Bruce lets show. Who could butcher language in such a way? “I bet you named the Batmobile,” growls Bruce, smirking at the gobsmacked expression on his face. He hears a snort and looks over to see Hood, now only in a domino as opposed to the full helmet, grinning. “Told ya not to underestimate him,” he gloats as he throws himself on the chair in front of the enormous screen display._ _ _ _ _ _

______Bruce’s eyes widen. “Is that a computer?” he can’t stop the glee growing on his face, and doesn’t try – they can probably read it anyway. “Is it mine? God, imagine…” Nobody stops him as he hauls his feet under him and picks his way over. Turning his back to the screen, Bruce surveys the cave. It’s….huge. Massive. There’s a sudden roaring, an engine, and two bikes scream to a stop in the parking area behind the Batmobile. A wild laugh escapes Bruce. “Bikes! This is – god, Tony would love this… is that a chem lab?” Bruce indicates the complex setup of benches and instruments incredulously. The boys glance at each other. This is not how they pictured a teenage Bruce._ _ _ _ _ _

______“It’s yours,” says Red Robin as he exits the showers wearing shorts and one of Bruce’s old tees, domino off and towel around his shoulders, “it’s one of the oldest parts of the cave.” The light in Bruce’s eyes is like nothing they have ever seen. Bruce steps towards the lab, checking himself sharply. He looks at Nightwing, “May I?” Nightwing hesitates for only the slightest moments then nods decisively. Bruce grins wildly. “This is mine, yeah? It’s the same setup as the lab at uni. This bit, with all the bio stuff, that’s Lex’s set. And there, Tony’s. This….this is our perfect lab.” The wonder doesn’t leave Bruce. This is his own lab, built by him for him, and Lex and Tony too by the look of things. But, Hood said he didn’t talk to them anymore. How could that happen? They’re brothers, or as close as three traumatised youngsters can possibly get, and didn’t they swear to always be together just yesterday? “Kat would love this,” he whispers._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Who’s Kat?” asks the one with the towel curiously. Bruce frowns. They don’t know? “It’s just, you mentioned her before, right? None of us know who she is.” Black Bat and Spoiler – who’d arrived on the bikes, Bruce recalls – trot up to join the boys in similar outfits to Tim’s. Bruce baulks when he sees Cass’ shirt. “Is that my Rick Astley concert shirt? Why are you – actually, don’t tell me. I must really love you to let you wear that. I’m assuming I’ve adopted you all.” They look taken aback at his dry comment, and Bruce smirks, continuing, “Although, I suppose you could most of you actually be mine. I hope I’m not as crap a parent as Howard is?” They don’t seem to know who he’s talking about, but the discomfort and shock on their faces – varying person to person as he’d expected – isn’t saying much for his parenting skills. Alright. He can’t be anything near as bad as Howard or they’d have moved away by now. He’ll take that. Acceptable parent will suffice for now. Well. It won’t, but he’s not the man they know, so Bruce decides not to feel too guilty just yet._ _ _ _ _ _

______Black Bat smiles. She floats when she walks, like a ballerina, power and beauty. She halts in front of him, staring up into his eyes. Bruce raises and eyebrow – she might not find what she’s looking for. She’s beautiful, he realises, but that rush of pride and protectiveness isn’t his right. She might be his, but she isn’t _his _. It’s more than a little bitter in his chest that these are all likely his children and he doesn’t know them. Her hug catches him unawares, but he wraps her up in his arms, dropping a kiss to her hair on instinct. She tips her head back, surprised but happy. Bruce barely hears her whisper _“Baba” _, but he swears to himself he will love them all regardless of whether he knows them or not. Where this came from, he doesn’t know, but he isn’t scared of the cave anymore._____ _ _ _ _ _

__________Nightwing interrupts, “As much as I want to join in the hug, you should take Bruce upstairs. Robin – actually, what are we doing about names?” Hood looks thoughtful, the desuited boy has his eyes narrowed. Spoiler looks to Black Bat, who steps out of his hold. He’s cold without her. She smiles slowly. “Our names. Cass,” she says, placing her hand on her heart. She smirks, “Favourite child.” The others roll their eyes, so Bruce decides it’s not a bad favouritism. Maybe she’s less trouble than the boys. “Dick, Nightwing. Tim, Red Robin. Steph, Spoiler.” Bruce smiles, softer than he’d expected to be. It’s a far cry from the snarling from earlier, he knows. Nobody ever accused him of being wholly stable. But – “What about Hood? What do I call you?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Clearly whatever is going on between is a bit damaged. This silence is worse than Lex’s last Christmas dinner with his poor excuse of a parent Lionel. Hood sighs. “Jay. Call me Jay.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________His children. “You know, it must have been a deaging spell,” he announces. Tim frowns, confused. “How do you know?” asks Steph. Bruce smiles, “Simple. I know you all. Cass fits against me. You and I, we’re awkward. Jay is short for Jason. Tim probably works himself as much a Tony does. Dick’s the oldest. Am I wrong? Because all of that feels _right _.” They’re all incredulous, except Cass, who looks proud. She shakes her head. “No, not wrong,” admits Dick, “but you best head on upstairs. There’s a few more of us…what?” Bruce shakes his head. More? How many children has he got? Considering how he ended up basically adopting Lex and Bruce, both of whom are older than him, he could have quite the collection. God he hopes Alfred is around.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Cass takes his hand, leading him to the stairs that curl up the cave wall to what looks like a heavily reinforced door. Tony would love it. He pauses at the foot of the stairs, looking behind him. The two suited men – his sons – are pushing into each other as they head for the showers. Tim and Steph are leaning against each other, Tim tapping rapidly on the computer. Bruce smiles as Cass tugs him up the stairs. He’s home, he can feel it, even if he doesn’t recognise anyone._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	3. In which Bruce breaks down unexpectedly in the kitchen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce goes upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I can't decide where to set this but so far I'm thinking PRE-Iron Man. Thoughts?  
> Also if you see typos point them out!

The stairs come out in the study. Bruce grins. “Niiice study I have here, Cass. You like it too?” he asks, eyebrow raised at the smile on his daughter’s lips. Daughter. Strange thought, that. He’s never really considered children. So far, there was just survival to achieve his goal of vigilantism – which actually seems to have pulled through and isn’t that just plain ridiculous. Tony and Lex became his older brothers dedicated to keeping their baby brother out of the dark pit of depression that plagued him like it did them. The photos on the wall show him a life of many faces, some old ones of Tony and Lex, Alfred, a myriad of children. Bruce laughs breathlessly, “All mine? Wow. I have a problem.” Cass giggles in agreement. Bruce takes a step towards his desk, thinking to look through the papers for information and maybe even more photos, stopped by Cass’ hand on his wrist. Her dark eyes look straight to his heart. “Food,” she orders. Bruce acquiesces without any of the usual token resistance. Alfred would have food and if there was one person he was dying to see it was Alfie.

Cass decides against telling him Alfred would be about twelve hours because of how the flights intersected. That, and Dick has only just called him. Until he gets home though the kitchen seems to be about the safest place in the house: they’ll all be able to keep an eye on this not-quite-Bruce and hopefully nothing will go wrong. Watching him stare at the halls they pass and nosily look into as many rooms as he can is putting a smile on Cass’ face, he sees, and grins that his kids seem to be fond of him (so far). Unfortunately, he’s badly missing his brothers. They should be with him, and he should be asleep. Exhaustion is starting to weigh on his shoulders like a cape, dragging his shoulders into a familiar slump. Why bother holding his head up in his own home? And here’s the kitchen, right where it’s meant to be, exactly thirty paces from the front parlour, two-hundred-twenty-two steps from his bed. That’s a really useful number: he counts in sets of thirty seven, six times. Lex had just quirked his pale eyebrows when he heard him drunkenly count way back when, in the old days, before any of them truly cared about anything except each other, Alfred, and Jarvis. 1992 was a hell of a year. He was (born in ’76) 16 years old, absolutely hammered, staggering all two-hundred-twenty-two six-times-thirty-seven steps from the foot of the bed to the kitchen sink, only to find Lex already lying on the kitchen table with Alfred brewing coffee. This was before Happy, and before Pepper. Rhodey had his own family, and they’d collectively decided that this Christmas was for Rhodey to spend with his family whilst they got smashed in downtown Gotham. Good times. Well, when they didn’t end up in the cells overnight. They actually have their own on MIT campus. It has their names on the door in scribbled permanent marker and Rhodey is their emergency contact – although, all of that is had, now, isn’t it? 

Cass raps her knuckles on the table taptaptap to attract his attention from where he’s drifted into his own head in the doorway of the room. That’s bad, he muses, because he hasn’t had near as many of the dissociative episodes recently. Alfred promised to take him out to that fancy French place for his birthday as a celebration – just them, two, as close as they could really be under the circumstances. He planned to go out with Tony and Lex for drinks and then just roll himself and his bags onto the plane at around dawn to leave for his hero training, which he assumes paid off, judging by the vigilante cave downstairs. Cass points at the head of table. “You sit here, Alfred there,” indicating the opposite chair, “rest wherever.” Bruce flickers a smile at his girl. She’s sat where Kat always sits on the rare occasion she has leave. He drops heavily into his chair and slumps onto the table, hard below his fingers and cheek, grounding as it always has been. Blowing a sigh into the crook of his elbow he asks, “Where’d the others get to?” without fully expecting an answer. The clatter of distant doors (three hundred strides or thereabouts) heralds the arrival of his other offspring. Or, not offspring, but still his. Kind of.

The kitchen blurs into wood and white paint.

A hand flickers into his view. Bruce blinks back into awareness and meets Cass’ worried gaze, unable to quite summon a smile. The next person he sees – when did they move? - is the man built like the proverbial door, green-tinted eyes narrowed in something that isn’t anger but something somewhat similar. He leans in, squinting like he can see the neurons firing in Bruce’s brain, and Bruce for a moment thinks he’s in trouble about to be lectured for being drunk in possession of illicit snack foods or something, but this man his son Jay isn’t Alfred or Jarvis so he’s good, but that’s a thing because he hasn’t seen or heard anything from Alfie since arriving and that distresses him much more than he usually would ever let on but he has no hope of hiding from these his crime-fighting children so is it worth holding a mask and maybe he should crack and ask about it but what if what if he hates the answer and it’s something absolutely awful or Lex and Tony are gone dead or hurt or just away and that would be his fault because –

“-uce! Bruce, come on, wake up!” It’s Jay, eyes wide in alarm, who stirs him out of the spiral. He’s spiralling too much, he can sense the abyss waiting for him to edge ever closer to the siren’s l'appel du vide, the urge to just tip over until the void is all that he sees. Jay looks severely upset about something, but it takes Bruce a few heartbeats too many to realise it’s him he’s concerned over. This is all wrong, his children should not be this worried over him. The hard wood beneath his cheek ties him to reality in not quite the same way a slice to the flesh of his forearm would, although with less distress for other people. Alfred keeps all the knives locked up anyway. He focuses on the discomfort of being hunched over, the way he’s sprawled in his chair like limp spaghetti, the aches and pains of phantom wounds – he’d swear it feels like he’s ripped some of the Guatemalan stitches – throbbing and pulsing like the lights in their favourite 80s themed club. He hears Jay sigh heavily, stand and move away. Will he be left to sleep here? That wouldn’t be bad. He’d probably wake up in six or eight hours – but he really does want to see Alfie. He wants tucked into bed like Alfie tucks him in, which has happened less recently because he’s been out a lot, and that’s just sad isn’t it since he’ll not be tucked in for four or five years probably when he goes away. Bruce wants Alfred.

Cass’ voice is gentle when she speaks. “Sad now – bedtime,” hands on his arm to pull him away from the table. What’s the point in protesting? She’s so strong and powerful, kind, gentle and far far more than he could ever imagine deserving but that’s it isn’t it, you don’t ever deserve your children. Bruce counts six-times-thirty-seven to his bed and falls down gratefully, spaghetti strings cut, blacks out before he registers hitting the quilt.


	4. In which the Batkids attempt to make a decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kitchen is where decisions are made in this house. Bruce being in bed (hopefully) is a good time to make them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is filler before we get to the real humorous stuff. Bruce and eyeliner, here we come.

Jason waited for Bruce’s footsteps to fade out of hearing before collapsing like an old man (sorry Alf) into the closest kitchen chair. God, what in the name of all his favourite authors is going on? This night had been confusion start to end. The novelty of the situation is really wearing off now. He wants to sleep but he is also cynically certain his brain wouldn’t be switching off any time soon, not with a teenage Bruce upstairs wherever Cass has put him. Where’d they go anyways? He’s almost sure he recalls, somewhere dusty in the cobwebs of that far down the jagged cliff of his memory, that Bruce had slept in what was Dick’s room. Actually, mentioning his brother - he could have sworn Dickbird was right behind him when they left the study, but he could have gone to change or something. Not what he’d expected, though, since usually they have to convince Dick away from injured, indisposed or otherwise not-in-optimal-condition family members. But hey. Seeing Bruce like that would have stressed him out.

Steph’s soft padding steps approach down the hall. She enters the kitchen warily, as if expecting the floor to fall out underneath her. Jay’s lips twitch. No chance of that. Bruce catches every possibility of harm before it even exists. 

“Well. I feel like the f word isn’t strong enough for this situation,” she announces dryly. The chair scraps backwards with the speed at which she throws herself into it. Jay sighs, mind flicking like a candle over the problem of the hour. Steph’s bright eyes catch on him. “Hey,” she asks, leaning forward, “you okay?”

How the hell did he answer that? He wasn’t okay. His dad was sick. Bruce was very clearly not okay, even for Bruce standards, and it was a concern. Stupid questions didn’t get answers. “Where’s the other two?”

“Well Dick was right behind you, so I don’t know, and Tim’s waiting in the cave for the blood results so we can get a better idea of what’s happening. It’s a good thing we have protocols,” she jokes. Jason doesn’t find it funny. The protocols don’t cover total memory loss, deaging and finding out about the nightlife all at the same time. Conjunctively, is the word. “Yeah,” she croaks, "I’m not finding it funny either. Put the kettle on whilst I make some toast?”

They spend a few minutes in shared silence, mugs clinking onto the table as Steph counts them out. Jason fills the kettle and takes comfort in the familiar click of the switch and ‘ffffffff’ sound of slowly boiling water. He reaches, muscle memory taking over, into the cupboard above the kettle and takes down the antique ceramic teabag jar (“because this family will make tea the British way or not at all”) and sugar pot. The teapot is a huge brown old-fashioned affair, from Yorkshire according to Alfie, sat like a chicken on the nest of the iron pot stand. 

This process is as much ritual as it is necessity.

First, fill the kettle. Look out of the window, or at the curtain, as you do so. Turn off the tap, flip closed the lid. Put the kettle on it’s electric hob, flick the switch. Check the little light is on. If there’s tea left in the pot tip it down the sink. Throw the bag away. Put it on the mat you pour the tea on, put in a new bag. Put the tea box or jar away. Listen to the bubbling of the boiling water. As soon as the kettle clicks off pour the water, fill full. Return the kettle. Put the lid on the tea pot. Wait until brewed. Pour.

This ritual takes Jason a little under ten minutes. It’s not about the tea itself, more about the comfort it represents, the sense of home and belonging, of continuation. The heat and steam of it. However, not everyone in the family really understands this concept. Alfred and Bruce do, obviously, as they’re the ones who taught him, and so does Damian even if he doesn’t particularly enjoy English style tea – and to be honest, Jason himself prefers a good cup of oriental blend green or Thai. Dick, he thinks he gets the idea of a nightmare ritual revolving around the tea process but Dick’s never been a massive tea drinker so he only understands from the point of view of a boy raised by tea drinkers. Tim – well. Tim exists on whatever he’s given, which is in equal proportions coffee and pure fruit juice.

Speaking of, Tim stumbles into the doorframe as he enters. Jason sighs. So it’s that bad, huh? He should have gone to Uni in England like Alfred recommended, Oxford or something, and studied literature. Or that place in Spain, which apparently has the oldest university in Europe, what was it called……Salamanca. Waaaaay away from Bat business.

“We need a meeting,” Tim states as he slumps into his chair, the blue one with his handprint on the back, “and we’re going to need lots of tea.”

Well then.

Jason refills the kettle and brings the pot to the table, pouring three to start. He frowns up at the doorway. “Where’s Dickbird?” he asks. Steph shrugs and looks at Tim. Tim shrugs and looks at Cass who’s snuck in looking flustered. Cass glares.

“Next time, you tell Dad room changes,” she hisses. Not asking, Jason decides as he hears Dick’s stomping, not asking. Dick hurls himself onto his stool – what is with this family and throwing themselves into chairs? If he tried it the chair’d break – and snarls at the pot. The air feels heavy with anger and frustration and a bit of fear, which usually means whatever decisions have to be made are hard and probably going to be guesswork.

Tim starts the conversation with his findings. “So best I can tell this isn’t permanent, and it’s definitely a deaging not a time swap. His blood showed nothing expect some surprisingly high alcohol levels and the sort of adrenaline and stuff I expected. How was he?”  
“Sad. Like after a bad week. Also, had to put him in spare bedroom. Wouldn’t go in his, used to sleep in Dick’s.” Jason cringes: he’d suspected something like this was going to happen. The tea is still almost too hot to drink.

Dick groans. “I hadn’t considered young Bruce to be like this. He can throw a punch, though.” He’d hit him? “I’m letting it go because I scared him when I came into the room behind him unexpectedly. Also, he’s a mess. An absolute mess. Alfred better have a handbook.”  
“He’s having mood swings?”

“Tim. He went from ‘wow’ to ‘spacing out in the kitchen’ in like five seconds and from ‘spaced out’ to ‘you can fuck off mate’ in about two,” states Dick petulantly. That’s how it is, huh? He pours himself another cup as he tops up Cass’.

The silence stretches out long enough for Steph and he to have finished their second mugs. It’s broken by Tim.

“Good job Damian isn’t here.”

Everyone freezes at the thought. That would be….bad. Very bad. God. Does not bear thinking about. Dick stood slowly, reluctance obvious. He lingered in putting the mug down. “I’ll….call Uncle Clark and tell him to keep Damian. Say we’ve…..ah hell. I’ll have to tell th the truth, huh.” Cass nodded. “Shit,” he sighed, “Anyone else want to do it?”

Silence.

“Bed, then. Oh, I put a tracker on B, and alarmed the perimeter so he doesn’t try to get anywhere. Alfie should be home in six hours.” Thank god for that. They had the barest edge of a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if there are any typos and stuff.


	5. In which Bruce essentially kidnaps his son, steals his own car, and gets a speeding ticket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’ll take him only 45 minutes to reach Metropolis if he drives fast enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here~~~~

Bruce wakes up abruptly, the way you do after dreaming about falling or drowning. Waking up in a bed that isn’t his isn’t the oddest thing that occurs on a regular basis, unfortunately. And no, it isn’t because he sleeps around. That’s Tony and Lex. Bruce is just good at talking his way into penthouses and high-end hotels without a booking. He wastes a few seconds wondering how drunk he got last night to end up somewhere unknown when he’d been in the Manor before he recalls with a jolt what had happened. His future. His kids. He’d punched the oldest on reflex, which Dick had been surprisingly accepting of (he hopes he doesn’t do that sort of thing habitually) and now he feels guilty over. The clock on the bedside says 1:20am, but his body clock reckons it’s about 5. 

Teatime.

Or.

It’ll take him only 45 minutes to reach Metropolis if he drives fast enough.

He reckons that his best bet for fitting clothes is Dick. It makes him a little uncomfortable to think about how very beautiful his son is – he’d probably not wait longer than three words and a flirtatious smile before starting a fistfight with someone hitting on him. Best not offer to let him come with. The others, he gets the feel wouldn’t enjoy it. Eh. He’ll go alone, if that’s what it takes. Anonymity has been getting rarer and rarer for the three genius playboy billionaires, especially given the fiasco of Guatemala. He hopes that particular adventure never comes into public knowledge.

Sleep has calmed him enough that sneaking into the kitchen is as easy as ever. He makes himself a cup of tea whilst he thinks. A fast car is definitely a top requirement. Nothing else seems to have moved far, sooo……. Bingo. The garage keys haven’t moved. At least, he really hopes they are the garage keys, because it’s that or hotwire the car on the drive and he suspects that it belongs to the blonde Steph (he needs to keep her mentally distant to Raven Steph from MIT or he’s going to start laughing every time he sees her and he’ll be in trouble). Setting his empty mug into the sink he tosses the keys in his hands. Oh, yessss.  
The key slides easily in the scratched lock – it has to be 40-odd years old. The door is as heavy as it’s always been, but the sliding bolts look new. Huh. Would have thought they’d have lasted longest, considering the age of the door and how the hinges creak. Now then, relying on the fact that the switch hasn’t been moved-

Holy

Fucking

Hell

This is paradise. This garage – he’s died and wound up in heaven. No way in heck can he possibly have all these cars. There has to be every brand in here, sports cars and flash cars and is that a Phantom II in that corner and a few brands he isn’t familiar with and oh, wow. 

That one.

There.

That’s it, that’s the one.

Everything else falls away from Bruce. There’s only the wonderful old garage smell of metal and oil and this beautiful, beautiful vehicle.

“It’s an SLR McLaren Mansory Renovatio.”

Bruce definitely doesn’t jump a mile and hurtle himself over the bonnet to face Jason. Nope. That’s ridiculous, he doesn’t take fright at unexpected voices in his garage. No. Nothing to do with the time he got kidnapped in a parking lot. His second son’s words hit him then. “It’s a Merc?” he asks as he tries to work it out.

“Yup,” answers Jason, “211mph top. Nicest available. I think you paid $1.5 million for it.”

Bruce’s lips and eyes widen as he hears how much he’d paid. Holy--- that is a lot. Wow. Alfred must have grounded him for a month after that at the very least. No surprise that he possess it, however. This Mercedes is so very deliciously him – really, it would be a crime not to take it for a spin. He raises speculative eyes up to Jason, who raises an eyebrow, “What?”

“If I were to go to Metropolis is would it be safe?"

“I mean, yeah, sure. People mostly assume it belongs to Luthor,” shrugs Jason. “Why?”  
Bruce doesn’t answer the question. “You got the keys?”  
Jason is looking deeply suspicious. “I – you keep them in the key safe,” pointing back into the kitchen. That’s what that was for. It required a code though and Bruce wasting time cracking it. It’s already 1:45.

“I want to drive it. Got a false ID I can borrow just in case?” he inquires. The best adjective he can think of for Jason is stunned. It seems that hearing his newly-teenage father ask for keys and a false ID for a ridiculously expensive Mercedes has thrown him off his rhythm. Jason’s mouth opens and shuts a few times whilst he visibly wrestles with what is probably a rather nasty case of cognitive dissonance. Maybe he can take the silence to take his plan a step further, “I would like to go for a coffee or something. Hey – if I haven’t changed there’ll be something in that locker-” he points at the red crate near the kitchen door “- but you’d know better.”

“Well, I – yeah. There’s a card in there with $500 for emergencies but I don’t know about a license.”

“Do you have a machine to print one?”

"Yeah, downstairs.”

“How long?”

“It’d take about twenty minutes, to input everything. I can do it remotely off my phone to save time, though.”

“Set it up and whilst I fill in the info you borrow me a black shirt and jeans, preferably also in black, off Dick. Also, underwear. And socks. And a leather jacket.” 

Jason really looks uncomfortable with this. What could he say to-

“Fine.” Victory! “On one condition, Bruce: do not get us pulled over.”

Bruce grins the wild sharp grin that means trouble and chaos. “I don’t get caught speeding,” he responds with breezy cheek, Jason looking bewildered by his complete irresponsibility. If they do get pulled over he’s unlikely to pass the breathalyser test, but hey, Harvey isn’t around to stop him. Oh, this is going to be brilliant. Jason sets up the phone (very fascinating, he’ll have to see about deconstructing one), throws him the keys. Bruce waves him off as he tells him to stay put, smirking as he inputs a long string of false information that is certainly not in any systems. It’s the first chance he’s had to test the new method of making false identities Lex dreamed up and he isn’t here to see it, which twinges his gut. He ignores it. There are other things to focus on. The data collection is filled in just as Jason let’s himself back in with an armful of clothes.

“Here,” he dumps them on the chest, “get dressed whilst I collect that.” Bruce does so, planning the best place on the Gotham-Metropolis road shown on the up to date road map conveniently on the wall above the locker whilst he waits on the ID. Thankfully, no other cars need moved and the garage door appears to be electrical, so they can get straight off. “I’ll drive,” he announces as the door opens again, “but I might need you as navigator. Do your phones have something for that?”

“It’s all on the Internet.”

“Sweet! We always said that was the way forwards. Maps are up there too now? Oh – can you get the Internet out and about?”

“Yeah, course.”

Bruce grins. “Jason. I’m not as old as you apparently believe. It’s 2019 for you, but it’s 1992 for me and I’m 18, not 45. I’m not as old as you think I am.” It takes a moment but Jason inclines his head in something that could resemble an apology if you soaked it in in snark and skepticism overnight. “Get in,” the doors beep and his grin grows, “We’re going out.”

The garage doors open smoothly and silently – clearly someone, probably him, maintains them for optimal sneaking out opportunities – and he carefully teases the car into first gear, revving only just enough to start moving. Jason’s inquisitive gaze is heavy against him, and he smiles sharp as knives out into the pitch blackness. Seems he doesn’t get out much anymore like this. Jason settles into his seat as they approach the gates, rattling off the access code for Bruce to input so they can get out. “Jason, are there any good all-night clubs in Metropolis we’re unlikely to get arrested for entering?”

Jason is bolt upright in alarm in under a second. "You’re joking,” he gasps, “Dad, this is – there’s no way – oh you’re so grounded.” He curls down to stare at the black mat in the footwell, breath catching in his chest at the very idea of this version of Bruce in a city they don’t control. The warm heavy hand on his back makes him jerk before he relaxes into the familiar weight of his dad’s palm. Focussing on the purr of the engines as Bruce carefully navigates the curling road to the freeway helps him regulate his breathing and lets the green stress siphon off. It might be alright. There’s an old club with secure parking two blocks down from the University which plays the sort of music he knows Bruce likes. That’d be safe if he can’t convince him out of it.

“Jason, if you need, I’ll take you home. I would like to go out but not at the expense of you,” and is this how it feels to grow up and be a dad? To see a boy bigger than him look to him with pleading eyes asking for him to take charge and fix it? Tony was right when he said Bruce was Dadstincts, huh. Jason’s breathing evens out and he sits up when Bruce removes his hand to change gears onto the freeway. Bruce exhales, hand flexing on the gearstick. “Put some music on,” he tells Jason, “something me.” Jason nods, checking the CD player. He presses the skip button a few times whilst Bruce speeds up, each shift a blink, an instant, and they’re doing 90 (mph, notices Jason, not in kmph) before the soft music kicks in.

_I fell by the wayside_

“What’s this?” asks Bruce, sparing the quickest of glances at his son to make sure he isn’t getting afraid as he carefully edges up to 110mph. The bass throws in as the chorus does. He smiles a bit at the drama of it, putting the windows down as he blasts up the volume. 

_I’ll never say sorry, ‘cause I’ll never be free  
You float like a butterfly, you sting like a bee  
You’re everywhere I go  
You’re always watching me  
Get the hell out of my head  
Get the hell out of my head_

The sensation of being forced back in his seat by the speed of the Merc, wind tearing his breath away and music blaring out, well, it feels like being alive.

“Harvey’d love this,” he yells over the noise, “He always pretends he doesn’t but he’s a speed demon much as I am.”

_I’ll never be free_

Jason reaches out an puts the volume down, flexing his jaw to pop his ears against the rushing wind. “You’re doing 150,” he yells, “this is not safe. You’re gonna run out of road if you don’t slow down in the next two minutes.” Bruce nods and eases off the acceleration gradually, reluctant to leave the thrilling freedom of risking his life at unholy speeds. His shoulders slump without the euphoria. Jason looks at him in concern. 

“Bruce, you okay?” he asks. Bruce shakes his head to clear the melancholy, blinks away tears. Deep breath, Bruce, he hears Harvey sooth him. He manages to quirk a grin at his son. He will be, he thinks, after a night out to exorcise his demons. The bright lights of Metropolis draw nearer and nearer, and the speedometer slides slowly down to a much more reasonable 80. Life is going to get better, he knows, because he has children now. He's - happy.


End file.
